The Tumblr Diaries
by CBK1000
Summary: A collection of drabbles previously available only on tumblr. Mostly smut, mostly Klaroline. Some Klefaroline and Rebekah/Caroline
1. Original Caroline Mafia

**A/N: So this is just a collection of drabbles I've put up on tumblr, which have, until now, not been published anywhere else. I thought I would group them all together into one document on this site for anyone who missed them the first time around, or would like to read them again. These are just little things, not terribly serious, mostly just some smut and/or prompts people shoved in my face until I couldn't not write them. Most are Klaroline, however, not all are- there is also some Rebekah/Caroline, as well as a Klefaroline fic I wrote a while back. I'll label the pairings either in each chapter title itself, or the author's note, so that you guys don't stumble across something you don't want to read. I've got to poke around my computer to try and round them all up, so I'll post these as I find them/remember to do so. I think there are about six fics I've never published on here before.**

**This one was just a little something that popped in my head, because who doesn't need to see Original!Caroline as a mafia boss, carrying on a torrid affair with a certain blue-eyed, dimpled underling? Featuring: newborn Klaus, rippah Stefan, and Kol as himself, because what else does he need to be?**

* * *

He listens to the thundering of rain, the hissing of tires, the faraway murmuring of the people, that unvarying heartbeat of the metropolitan society.

Stefan holds up a finger.

Beyond the door, just round the corner, up the stairs, there is the movement of half a dozen bodies, the soft whispering of their exhales, the rolling fog of their cigars, the clinking of poker chips, the shuffling of cards, of feet, of nervous hands.

Kol slicks back his hair and winks.

He wonders:

Does a heart, in its final moments, sense with its thousand years of evolution the coming end; does it beat more rapidly to compel the body to _move_, to bear itself along on this wave of bitter metal adrenaline; does it _understand _that though this morning you rolled from a bed tonight you lay down in a box?

Stefan flicks up his index finger.

He smells:

The smog of this great industrial cluster squatting round him on all sides, the underarm stench of the unwashed, the cloying chemicals of the overly-primped, a dozen, a hundred, a _thousand _sensations to close round his head with a surging like the tide, burying him beneath its foam.

Waiting is no longer an itch in his fingers, a frisson down his back, a tightening of throat, of stomach, of bowels.

His nerves no longer irritate but cramp, distort, _buckle _him.

To feel everything a thousand thousand thousand times- how is he to go on for another century, three, four, with this load upon his shoulders?

The rain does not merely sting but stabs him.

The sirens split his head.

The blood thunders in his veins.

His heart leaps against his ribs and the saliva floods his mouth and just the grating of Kol's sneaker along the pavement- what a bloody _noise _it makes-

Enjoy it, she tells him.

There are some things worth being heightened.

Stefan pops forth his final finger.

Kol kicks open the door.

He surges round the corner and up the stairs and he takes his first shot with a smile on his face, and wouldn't you know it-

Right as always, love.

* * *

There is always a brief moment of respite.

For just a moment, infinitesimal to the human eye but elongated to his own, the mind must process this sudden interruption of routine.

Your hand has just set down your drink.

Your mate has just picked up his own.

You eye your prospects, you put forth your cards, you let for just a moment the laughter from the next room over shift your attention from this round you have already lost.

Drink.

Inhale, exhale, shuffle- what a robotic existence all man settles for.

Round and round we go.

Your lungs inflate, your heart beats, your body runs itself always along this track from which it will never veer though you are no longer steering the cars.

Until one day it does.

Your mate with glass in hand reels backward with his shirt shredded to pieces, his drink shivering apart to splinters, his lips thick with the foam of his lungs, and how you must _fight _to process this sudden reversal of his eternal fate.

He pumps his shotgun.

Kol leaps onto the table, upsetting the chips, and swings until one of the players' faces crumples.

And now comes the bloody _fight_, the skirting of death, that intoxicating little threat.

This brief respite ends with the sudden chattering of machine gun fire, and he flips the table with Kol still on top of it.

His brother rolls himself out of the way and behind him Stefan opens fires with his .45, pressing himself flat against the wall of the open-ended kitchen.

There is no time to fear, in a moment like this.

The guns vomit their acrid smoke, but forward you push, onward you _move_, firing as you go.

There is the clattering of his shells, the hollow _click _of the plastic, the resonating _tink _of the primer, his brother's voice coarsened by smoke and shout, the low rattling of Stefan's pistol, the higher voice of the automatic, squeezing off continuous bursts through flame and fog and blood-

Kol's bat, shattered across his knee with a snap-

The siren wailing of some innocent three flats above-

You have never truly experienced death, behind your computer, at your controller, in leaden awe before your television.

Blood in your teeth, bone beneath your _fist_, the screaming, the _pleading_-

In a thousand years, will this too become merely another thing to be endured?

He sincerely hopes not.

He empties the final shell from his chamber and spins the shotgun in his hand with a smile, swinging it like that bloody bat Kol is so fond of.

Stefan materializes beside him.

Kol pops up at his other shoulder.

"Did you miss me?" Kol asks as the machine gunner spends his final round and with a hiss drops his fangs instead.

Stefan flashes round behind him.

Kol skewers him with the tip of his splintered bat.

And his mate-

What a shame.

How fascinating, though, the shape a shotgun butt can press a face into, when you put your back into it just a bit.

They sweep on.

Stefan shoots two through the heart, Kol has his back while he reloads, he closes the action with a snap.

Another throws himself through the doorway with pistol in hand, firing blindly as he goes.

Fantastic.

He shoots the boy twice in the head.

* * *

"Nope," she says.

"I said, 'Be. More. Funny.'"

She leans back.

She puts her feet up on her desk.

At the other end of the leash she holds casually in one hand, Damon Salvatore grimaces, his wooden collar digging its spikes into his neck, and now he opens his mouth to pop off with something she is just sure is never going to meet her expectations.

She seems to have bled him dry.

No pun intended.

She hears Klaus' laugh down the corridor, and she gives another sharp tweak of the leash.

"Never mind. Amy?"

The girl pops her head instantly through the door adjoining her office to the room next door, eyebrows lifted, hands in a sweaty little twist before her. "Put Mr. Salvatore back in his cage. I'm done with him for today."

The boys' footsteps come thundering down the hall, Klaus' leading, Stefan's just a moment behind, Kol's bringing up the rear.

Amy takes the leash from her hand and leads Damon away by the throat, the door clicking shut behind her.

She sits forward with her palms together, fingertips touching her nose.

"Having a good day, brother?" she hears Stefan ask with that little shit-eating tone of his, and now comes the soft little slap of his playful cheek pat, Kol's mocking tweak of the nose, that little freaking _laugh _of his brother's which does not set her heart to flight or her veins to surging, it does not turn her mouth to sawdust, she feels none of its echoes in her clenching stomach, she hasn't lived a goddamned _thousand _years to be brought to her knees by this curly-haired _newb_.

The door opens.

"And how was the act tonight? Yes?" Stefan holds up one hand and taps the other softly against it. "Or?" He separates them and flattens his mouth regretfully as he draws a finger across his throat.

"It was boring, actually. Your brother needs to step up his game, before I decide to eat him and be done with it. There will always be some idiot who can't look past the cute little curls and the adorable smile." She fluffs her hair and scrunches up her nose. "I'd say that maybe the next time he tries to violate a girl in a dark alleyway, he'll maybe think about who he might be trying to victimize, but there won't be a next time."

Klaus is already smiling when he steps through the door.

She falters just slightly, and leans back once more in her chair, putting her feet back up on the desk. "Shut the door," she tells Kol.

"Uh, oh," he says, nudging it closed with his heel. "I think we're about to get spanked."

"So." She twists from side to side in her chair, letting her eyes skitter just briefly over Klaus, settling them instead on his brother, on Stefan, flitting back and forth between these two men who though they face her with such casual smiles are still just a bit scared, underneath it all.

She just _adores _the smell of fear.

Go on, boys, let your little hearts just _rabbit_.

"I heard the three of you had a good time over at the Donnollys'."

"Very good, actually," Kol agrees.

"I'm glad. I hope your little adrenaline high can bolster you, in these next few minutes." She leans forward, pressing her hands down into the polished cherry wood of her desk. "Because I don't remember ordering that hit. So I'd like to hear an explanation as to why I'm now going to have to deal with some sort of retaliation." She sits back once more, folding her arms across her chest, both boots crossing at the ankle. "You have two minutes. Impress me."

Kol begins to unbuckle his pants.

Stefan smirks.

"It stays in, or it gets cut off."

He stops his fumbling.

Klaus flashes his dimples and ducks his head, peeking back up from underneath his eyebrows.

Shelve your freaking _googly _eyes, Mikaelson.

"They called you fat," Stefan whispers. "We didn't want to say anything."

She rolls her eyes.

"We were looking for the white oak stake, actually," Klaus tells her, linking his hands behind his back.

"Really."

"Yes."

"So you were looking for the white oak stake that the Angevines are rumored to have…at the Donnollys'."

"A few of them may have gotten a little uppity with us the other day."

"So you pulled out your ding dongs and your rulers."

"There's no need for rulers, darling. It would be completely superfluous."

"It will be, if you don't stop talking without permission." She smiles pleasantly. "There's no point to measuring a stump."

Klaus smiles again.

"You wouldn't, Caroline- not when our love has yet to be consummated."

She rolls her eyes again. "You wouldn't live through that consummation."

"Nik, Stefan- does that sound like a challenge?"

"Sounds like a challenge to me," Stefan agrees.

"Sounds like you want your liver ripped out, little brother."

Caroline tilts her head. "At least somebody knows how to treat a lady."

"I'm sure he does ok. But does he have a tongue like-"

Klaus reaches out and casually breaks Kol's arm.

Stefan laughs.

She stands up. "Everybody out. We'll see how much shit hits the fan over this, and then I'll expect to see you back in here. Bring your best ass-kissing. I'm going to want to hear about how pretty and brilliant I am. Be creative. Ok?"

Kol gives a little hiss as his bones knit themselves back together. "I'll await your call, darling."

"Tell my brother it was good seeing him again, and that I'd like a post card now and again, you know?"

She waves them off. "Not you, Klaus. I need to talk to you for a second."

Kol gives Stefan a little pop on the ass and turns back with a nod and a thumbs up to Klaus as Stefan precedes him into the hall.

He blows her a kiss.

She shuts the door in his face.

Klaus has moved back toward her desk, that little smile still on his face, his T-shirt soaked against his chest, his jeans damp, his hair still with a fine mist of blood in it, his stubble slick with this same hot red dust.

She listens to their footsteps fading away down the hall, to their voices vanishing, to the shrill hinges of the door which admits them onto the street.

She leans her shoulders back against the door.

He takes a step forward.

"No," she snaps.

"Sit."

He smiles.

"In your seat? I thought that was a bit taboo, sweetheart."

"On the desk."

He backs away with his hands up, still smiling, his curls ruffled, his boots each their own little separate heartbeat against the wax-polished floor.

He sits down slowly, and he leans forward with both eyebrows raised, folding his hands between the open v of his knees.

She locks the door behind her.

"If I may," he says, never dropping that little dimply goddamned smile of his, "it was Kol's idea."

"Really," she replies, and in a blink she crosses the room to seize his hair in her hand, wrenching back his head, baring his throat, bringing one knee up to rest it on the desk beside his thigh.

She brings her other knee up.

He grabs a handful of her ass and surges forward against her fingers to kiss the tops of her breasts, just visible over her shirt, making his way up her collarbone to her shoulder, her throat, her chin.

She yanks his head back again, and she leans down to kiss him until he lets out a jagged little breath against her lips and shudders underneath her.

She kisses his bottom lip, drops her fangs for a brief taste, slides them back up to just hold his cheeks in her hands for a moment and sit there breathing against him, their lips barely brushing.

He opens his eyes to look at her, bringing his shaking hands up to brush them down either side of her head, his fingers sifting her curls as they go, and God, how _carefully _he watches her, like she is the only thing in this entire freaking world.

She throws him down on the desk.

He rips her shirt as she straddles him, snaps her flimsy bra between his fingers, presses an open-mouthed kiss to her nipple.

She grabs his head in both her hands, grinding her hips down frantically against him as her mouth drops involuntarily and she lets out this rough, rough breath, her throat seizing, her heart thumping, his mouth still working away at her breast, his teeth lightly scraping, his tongue skillfully flicking-

"One of the Angevines is dropping by today," she pants as he kisses toward her other breast, slipping his hand up her bare stomach to cup the one he has just left, his teeth closing gently around the other. "You have five minutes."

He undoes her jeans one-handed, his lips still moving reverently against her nipple, the hand at her zipper sliding around to push her pants down one hip and then the other, and now for a moment she breaks away to help him, lifting herself off him to slip her jeans all the way down to her ankles and kick them away over the side of the desk.

She tears one of the legs of his jeans getting them down, rips his shirt down the middle, kisses from navel to boxer waistband.

"And how am I supposed to walk out of here with no shirt and ripped trousers?" he asks breathlessly, kissing the top of her head once, twice as she slides her lips up his abs, his arm looping around her back, his hand steadying itself on her hip.

"You're not going to be able to walk at all, by the time I'm done with you."

He lays back against the desk and smiles up at her as she pins his hands down by the wrists. "I love it when you talk dirty to me."

"Stop talking, and put your cock in me. You're down to three minutes."

"I don't know what you're concerned about," he says silkily, smirking up at her. "I can have you screaming in one. But you already know that."

He flips them both over.

She yanks his boxers down.

He pushes her panties aside.

He leaves his cheek pressed to hers as he screws her, his hips hammering relentlessly away, his cock right freaking _there_, exactly where she needs it, his breath rattling in her ear, his hand fisting in her hair, both of them arching into one another, her leg hooking over his hip, her hands shredding his back-

Another surge and he comes with a sharp breath, pressing his lips to her hair, cradling her face with his other hand, his eyes shut, his hips still thrusting, that slick warm spurt inside her still going, and oh God, just once more, right where he is-

"Oh my God oh my God Klaus-" she cries out, and with another sharp cry she pulses around him, her toes curling, her nails burrowing deeper into his shoulder muscles, everything riding this intensely brief high.

He kisses her softly as she comes back down from it, and it has never, _ever _been an uncomplicated thing, for people like her.

But somehow she loves him, and somehow it is just that freaking simple.

* * *

He could stay up all night, just putting the contours of her face down to paper.

Sometimes he does.

Tatia always protested this odd little quirk of his, this insomnia that drives him to the pencil among the early gray hours of the morning, but on days she catches him bent over his pad sketching her where she lays, sheet pulled up to her hips, her pretty white cheeks sunk beneath layers of curls, she stretches her arms, she arches her back, she smiles up at him.

There are some things which cannot be put into words, and from this..._void _sprung art, which articulates all.

What he cannot say because his father choked it down inside of him, because Tatia transferred it to another, because his mother snatched it back when he needed it most-

It's all here, sweetheart.

* * *

She just loves the rain.

Maybe you're not the outdoors type. Maybe you prefer your ground carpeted, your sunlight filtered, your breezes kept always just at bay beyond screen, window, door.

But all the little nuances, brought out in a woodland fresh from the storm.

The branches shake down their own personal showers in little wet diamonds that catch the sunrise as they fall; the grass has borrowed from the sky the galaxy that simmered out when the first rays touched their long yellow fingers to the mountains, and the _smells_-

It's like…

Maybe there is a man way up high in that sky after all, and between first drop and final sprinkle, he has taken this great wet paintbrush, and he's smudged everything out.

If ever there comes at last that one moment in which everything is just…sloughed away, it will be on a morning like this, with the sludge poured into the gutter, with the buildings sluiced clean of their smog, with the streets swept empty of trash.

And how fabulously easy is it, to get all the bloodstains out of your brand new Burberry Brit blouse?

She wipes her hands on Donald Angevine's face, and she walks away smiling.

* * *

"The Angevines shot Brooklyn Donnolly this morning," he tells her in between kisses, his lips moving across each sliver of skin he bares as he inches her shirt up her stomach.

"What about her husband?" she asks breathily, curling her fingers into his hair.

"Got himself out a window." She feels him smile against her abs. "He may not have made it to the street."

She yanks him up from her stomach to kiss him roughly, wrapping her legs around his waist.

He brings both his hands to her cheeks, flicks his tongue out to meet hers, presses her back down into the bed as he kisses her, holding her face gently with his rough, rough palms.

"Well, I guess that's what he gets, for just leaving her behind like that. I mean, they were married for like 300 years."

"I wouldn't," he says breathlessly, sucking on her ear. "Leave you behind."

She goes very still underneath him.

You would not do what everyone else for a thousand years has done just like it is freaking breathing, it is that easy; you would not do what ten centuries ago her own freaking _father _did without batting an eye-

He pulls back to look at her, running his thumb down her cheek bone.

He leans in to kiss her, so lightly she barely even feels his lips against her own.

She holds him for a very long time that night, trailing one hand along his bare shoulder, down his arm, onto his knuckles.

* * *

There is a raid on one of the main warehouses.

An entire arsenal of weapons pinched, some of Caroline's best men cut down in a wooden rain, quite the little bill racked up in damage-

She takes care of it personally this time.

Two dozen of the Angevine clan, snuffed out in a blink, he hears.

Quite the sight.

Caroline scurrying here, there, now you see her, now you don't, all of them sweeping about their weapons in blind beast panic, firing wildly, disappearing with a scream and a sudden silencing of their weapon into the smoke, splashing up against walls, over chairs, across carpet-

"You should have brought me," he whispers, kissing her bare thigh.

"Too many of them. Their bullets annoyed me. They would have killed you."

She arches up as his tongue finds her clit.

He coaxes two orgasms out of her with lips and tongue and fingers, and then he fucks her with blood still in her hair and on her hands.

* * *

On a misty Tuesday, Kol is cut down in one of the lonely side streets, and brought home barely alive.

Klaus and Stefan drive a delivery van through the front window of the deli run by the Donnollys and open fire on everyone in the shop.

He leaves just one alive.

"Go back and tell your boss that if he lays a single finger on my brother again, I'll make him think Caroline Forbes is positively merciful."

He pats the boy's cheek and breaks four of his ribs with one steel-toed boot.

Stefan takes the boy's sunglasses from the collar of his shirt and flicks his nose with the tip of one of the earpieces.

"You look like a douche, mate," he says as Stefan slips them on over his nose.

"I'm making an exit," he says, and he flings the pipe bomb in his hand over one shoulder with an easy flick of his wrist.

The shop ignites with a great roar.

"You see how much less cool that would have been, without the glasses?"

* * *

She sends him out on a routine raid, just a little flexing of the muscle, that showmanship necessary to keep the peasants in their place, and with her heart in her throat, she switches on her TV to see the last survivors of this routine raid shot down in the street to die their dusty gray deaths.

He is not among them.

It's not a conscious choice, sitting down after something like that.

It's funny, how easily the legs still fail after a thousand years of famine, of plague, of war.

* * *

He spends half the bloody night making his roundabout way to her flat, shaking Angevines off his tail as he goes.

"Oh my _God_," she breathes when she opens the door to his knock, and for a moment she shuts her eyes, and she leans her forehead against her hand.

"Do not, do not, do _not _do that again," she snaps, and then she pulls him inside and she fists his jacket in her hands and buries her face against his chest.

* * *

"Have you ever stayed with anyone…permanently? Well, obviously not permanently, seeing as how they're not still around, but did you ever…want to?"

He has put down his charcoal and is looking at her so earnestly.

What are you trying to ask, she wants to know, keeping her face nonchalant and her hands steady as she buries her feet in the sheets they have knotted up at the end of the bed.

He looks down with a little breath and a smile, but she can see his knee bouncing beneath his sketchpad, his pulse pounding in his neck, his fingers twisting the garish silver settings of his daylight ring.

"The Donnollys…got married, didn't they? So it's done sometimes…with people like us."

"Yeah, it's not exactly the same as it is for humans. It's a little bit different when you're pledging an eternity, not a lifetime."

He picks up his charcoal again, fidgets it between his fingers, drops it back onto his pad with a hollow little _tink_ that scatters a layer of loose black dust across the page.

"What if I wanted to?"

She tries not to feel her heart beating in her throat, her wrists, her thighs, all of her one single pulse, pounding, pounding, pounding.

She scoffs and looks away. "You're a kid. You have a very long ways to go before you know what you want."

"I'm thirty-three."

"And I'm a thousand and seventeen. You've barely even started."

"So you don't want to."

"Klaus." She presses her fingers to the bridge of her nose, rubs one foot along the other in this knot of sweat-scented bedcovers, looks up at him through her lashes.

"That's not what I said," she tells him, and what a smile his face breaks out into.

* * *

"Three on your left. One with a gun." She cocks her head. "The far right one."

And then she kicks in the door of Maria Angevine's cozy little flat, and she strides right into their midst, ripping out hearts as she goes.

He breaks that far right one across his knee, tosses him aside, shoots him as he flies, jams the barrel of his pistol into the gut of his friend and pulls the trigger three times in rapid succession as he fends off the last with an elbow to the man's jaw.

"Jackpot," she tells him, clicking back toward him with a smile, white oak stake held aloft.

He tucks his pistol back into the waistband of his trousers.

She loops her arm through his own.

Behind them, Maria Angevine's head slips with a moist splash from the counter where Caroline has jauntily set it to splatter itself noisily across the tile.

* * *

"All right," she says one night, examining her lipstick in the mirror of her vanity.

He looks over to her from the bed where he has stretched himself out, hands behind his bed, feet crossed at the ankle.

"You can marry me. Or, whatever, the vampire equivalent of that. Which is basically just a ring and the understanding that if anyone tries to back out, the other one gets to eat them."

She twists her head round to look at him over one shoulder.

He has sat up without even noticing this shift from horizontal to vertical, his hands nerveless on his knees.

She smiles.

"But you're going to have to prove to me that it's worth my time."

She crooks her finger.


	2. 5x11 Drabble

**A/N: This is just a little drabble I wrote following 5x11, to deal with all my feels.**

* * *

What she notices most is not where he places his hands or how he moves his tongue or what he does with his hips, but those freaking _eyes_, and the way he squeezes them so tightly shut.

The world does not disappear.

You do not sink into a void.

Time has rearranged itself into whole new units, for creatures like them.

All civilizations fall, each century is snuffed, every man makes his way beneath the loam, but them, _them_-

For as long as the stars burn on and the planet spins around and the trees feed their own dying breaths to the lungs of civilizations that will never outlast their roots, they walk on.

Not ahead of time, not racing her to the end, not challenging her to catch, to keep pace, to _overcome_, but in lockstep, yoked always to her side.

You do not freeze time and tuck her away when you are ready, you do not shut off with a blink of your eyes and a catch of your breath the sun through the trees and the dry whispering of the leaves and all the crisp new scents of autumn falling in Halloween showers around you.

But she breaks away for just a moment, and she runs her hands through his curls, and with his hands on her bare breasts, he takes a shaky breath, and he leans into this.

And there is nothing, _nothing _else, she sees when he finally opens his eyes and he looks back at her, trying to say something.

She kisses him again.

He is not ready to talk anyway, not with his breaths so ragged, his heart so fast, his hands fumbling nervously away at her waist.

He lifts her up.

She wraps her legs around his hips, tries to skim his shirt up over his head, is stopped by this kiss he will not end, his lips moving frantically against her own, his body pressing her hard into the tree.

This is not what she wanted, she thinks, and she kisses him back until he bruises.

She was going to burn this man out of her system, and she was going to move on with her life, to all the next phases that will never not patiently await her, never forcing her forward.

But he never does let her take his shirt off, he is pressed that closely to her, and when he pushes into her at last, he freezes.

He rests his forehead against hers.

He cradles her face as he kisses her.

And when he starts to move- yes it's exactly right and oh my _God _has a thousand years taught him how to hit just precisely _there_-

But it's not about how long this has been simmering, or how good it feels just to have _someone _inside her, following her three month dry spell.

She drags him closer by his necklaces and she opens her mouth and he bucks his hips harder into hers, the bark scratching her shoulders, the leaves crunching under his feet, and then he says her name in that jagged, jagged voice, and oh God, she doesn't _mean _to, but she says his back.

This is brutal.

The tree cuts into her shoulders and his nails dig into her hips and neither one of them is making it out of this without something in pieces -her blouse, his necklace- and with every thrust he shoves himself a little harder into her, because this. Is. _Him_.

He takes what he pleases.

He walks this earth and he leaves its people strewn about in pieces.

He levels countries.

He murders entire generations.

She had this plan, you know.

Not the one from before.

The gracefully aging housewife with her two kids and her house on the corner and the backyard with the pool and the fake snow like cake frosting on all the windows, every winter.

She's gone now.

Katherine Pierce held a pillow down over her face until she stopped crying out.

But she is Caroline Marie Forbes, and her backup has a backup has a _backup_.

Bunnies for breakfast, besties forever, everything tucked neatly away in its place.

This is not a part of the story.

This was never a piece of the backup's backup's _backup_.

When she was a little girl, it started like this:

Once upon a time, there was a princess.

She never bothered to make up all the in-between details, because what matters is the end of every story, how you tie it all together, how you bundle up the pieces and you deck them out with ribbon.

Caroline Marie Forbes lived happily ever after.

She died asleep in her bed, still pretty.

Maybe she fought a monster or two along the way; maybe she met a witch, she kissed a frog, she turned into a swan and she flew away into the clouds to live there until she was ready to come down.

But sometimes the monsters, you know-

They wear other faces underneath the first, and they take them out to show you, and then this carefully-calculated plot takes its first swerve off the path.

She kisses him with teeth, with tongue, with her nails drawing blood from his back and her hips coaxing sighs from his lips.

She forces him down into the leaves and she rides him until he cries out, until his head flops back in the grass and his arms slide up her slick spine, until she collapses down against him and she lays her head breathlessly on his chest.

He kisses her forehead.

He keeps his fingers pressed to the small of her back and he lies there breathing into her hair, and for a very long time she lets herself stay like this, listening to his heart, watching the leaves come down, the sun shutter itself away behind the clouds, the rabbits burrow off into their holes.

What she notices most is not how his stubble catches her hair or his fingers skim her hips or his heart still pounds away like a drum, just beneath her ear, but the way he gently tilts her face up to kiss her like he is parched, and how this is not a good-bye.


	3. Klaus Kills Klaus

**A/N: Ok, so this story is pure crack. I hate what a big dribbly manbaby Klaus has become on TO, so to work out some of my frustration over what they've done to his character, I had TVD Klaus storm the castle, and take care of this sniffly little bitch who's giving him a bad name. And, of course, he picked up Kol along the way. Implied Klaroline**

* * *

Ah, the sweat of this city.

He remembers it well.

The cinder afternoons, the moist evenings, the brutal Amazon steam of this torpid Southern life-

And the _smells_.

Rubbish left for too long in its bins, slick underarms, sticky thighs, the fetid perfume of the corpses in their cold marble beds-

He cocks his head, and he scents out each pulsing young life that passes within his range, the crawling geriatrics with their wobbling rubber limbs, the young bucks scenting out their own prey as he sniffs round for his, the dark little children with their wide eyes and their rough wire braids.

How magnificent they smell.

His brother claps his shoulder and hefts that prized bat of his over one shoulder. "Where to first, Nik?"

"Elijah will take care of the other. We'll head straight to the house."

He moves forward, Kol at his side.

There is no throwing out of the arms, no jostling of the shoulders, just a look, a smile, a _hint_, and how eagerly these little humans who are not nearly so stupid as they look shift aside for them.

* * *

Perhaps it's a bit…overdramatic.

But what a _crack _the handles make as they embed themselves in the walls to either side of these doors he flings open.

Over the piano hunches this feeble little man (if he may indeed use such a term for this thing which has somehow got its hands on his face), and good bloody _God_- Beethoven's Pathetique?

What maudlin rubbish.

There is a sudden silence.

A slow unfurling of all the muscles, one tendon at a time.

He links his hands behind his back.

This poor surrogate with this child's pout and his addiction in a rum cologne all round him takes a sip from his bottle and sets it slowly down on top of the piano. "What the hell are you doing in my house?"

Kol steps round him with bat still over his shoulder.

"Brother," he whispers, his voice cracking as so often it does these days beneath the weight of all his pathetic git whinging, and round the neck of that bottle go his fingers once more, the glass creaking beneath his grip.

"I hate to disrupt this little reunion, but I'm afraid we're on a bit of a schedule. Elijah and Bekah are all the way across town, taking care of their own little problems, and I wanted to get together for a little snack before putting this little city forever behind me, thanks to the reputation you've gained for the both of us."

"You mean all-powerful, _indestructible_- this entire city is _my kingdom_, if you haven't noticed," the little git roars.

Kol flaps his thumb and his fingers. "Listen to him prattle on, Nik. He's like Bekah when she's just got hold of another suitor who doesn't worship her enough."

"I was thinking more like that shrill Petrova doppelganger- the newest one. Can't wrap her head around anything that doesn't revolve around her precious-"

"Woman regions? You think that's the issue with this one, Nik? Perhaps a bit of sand in them? I've heard it itches."

"Do you _see _-this family never grants me a bit of respect- you always _look me over _when for _a whole week _I've proved myself by not stabbing the whole _bloody lot of you_-"

"Ah, here we are. Now come the waterworks. It must be time for the baby's bottle again, Nik."

"You don't understand _how bloody wounded I am inside_."

Ko leaps jauntily onto the piano and brings his bat with a discordant crash down onto the keys, spraying them in little white shards like gleaming teeth across the room. "Look at him go, Nik! Won't that ease your fapping a bit tonight, darling?"

The atrocity gives a great roar and swings his arm out to sweep his brother's legs from underneath him, and in a flash he pins him to the back wall, and with hand in a steel trap round his jaw Klaus forces him to watch the disassembling of first the piano and then the precious bottle churned to foam by the shuddering of the instrument underneath it.

"What have we here?" Kol asks as he rips away the gleaming top of the piano and he unearths from underneath it yet another of these sloshing amber addictions.

He pops the cork and he douses bench, sides, keyboard, and now from the pocket of his trousers he takes a lighter, and he flicks it with a smile.

"Do you remember," he whispers silkily in the fraud's ear, "that time you had within your clutches a young wolf, terribly rude little thing, and you extracted the information you needed not with your hand on her heart, mate, but with your ridiculous whimpering and your wooing? And do you remember the time you, like the little bloody tit that you are, took at face value the word of those clearly aligned against you and shouted to the skies your need for an heir- did you forget, mate, about that pesky little thing called immortality, which requires no successor? Did you forget that Marcel's heart ought to have been in your hand the moment he attempted to force you to bended knee?"

Kol sets the flame to the bench.

The instrument ignites with a hissing of polish and a crackling of wood.

"His point is, darling, you're a terrible, weepy little shitheel and we don't like you at all."

"That's right."

There is a noise at the door, a soft footfall, a sudden wafting of perfume, blue eyes not so deep, blonde hair not so bright-

"Hello, I'm Camille, and I want you to know that I understand you're just doing this because you had a bad childhood-"

He releases the sniveling little imposter and he crosses the room in a blur to eat her lovely, vapid face.

She falls in a moist red pile to the carpet.

"_Noooo_! She _saw me_, mate! Never has anyone looked so bloody deep down inside me- my own _family_-"

Kol punches him in the face.

He spits blood, he lashes out with another great roar, he is dumped onto his ass by that impeccably aimed bat taking him round the knees.

Klaus tilts his head and licks the blood from his fingers. "Hold him, would you."

"Gladly, brother."

He takes a step forward, smiling as he goes.

What a joy is the advancement, the slow savoring of each placement of the heel, of the pressing of toe into carpet, of the victim with his quickening breath and his widening eyes.

"Are you going to kill me?" the moist git whispers.

"Of course, mate."

He smiles.

"But not for a while."

Kol pats his cheek playfully. "Would you like us to give Caroline a quick ring, mate? Have yourself one last tearful good-bye?"

The atrocity's brow wrinkles stupidly. "Who?"

Well, now, isn't that just too far.

He backhands the man hard enough to tear his head from his neck, sending his crumpled face with its blubbery little eyes sailing across the room into the wall on the far side of the room, powdering the plaster as it goes.

Kol darts a hand up to snatch from the air the sheets of paper that flutter free in a December snowfall.

"What the hell is that?"

"Looks like poetry." He clears his throat theatrically. "I think you'll particularly enjoy this one, Nik: Roses are red, my soul is dead-"

"I think that's quite enough of that," he interrupts, snatching the sheet from his brother and shredding it to confetti between his fingers as his phone gives off a little trill from within his pocket. He pulls it out with a glance to the screen, and holds it up with a smile. "My wife."

Kol loudly puckers his lips.

He waves him off as his brother sets to work dousing the headless little heap at his feet and brings the phone to his ear. "Caroline! Yes, love, I took care of it. I know you're tired of his 'weepy emo bullshit', sweetheart; I assure you, it's over."

There is another whooshing of flame, the sour black reek of barbeque death, the sizzling of the skin, the hissing of the hair.

He steps over the crumpled mess of this pale imitation wife, Kol behind him, whistling cheerfully as he goes, and he listens with a smile to the fizzing of the parlor crying out its final gray throes, the smoke in a bayou fog all about them.

"I'll be home soon, Caroline."


	4. Klaroline69 Drabble

**A/N: This is a drabble I wrote for the tumblr blog, Klaroline69, which is comprised of a team of writers who fill various prompts messaged to them by other users. The prompt was role reversal (so more Original Caroline and newborn Klaus) and the couple's first time in New Orleans.**

* * *

In this warm molasses midnight, there is a sudden stirring.

From the Hotel Mazarin: a single cowboy.

With confident steps and swinging arms he goes to his fate, his first stride a human advancement, his second a supernatural mist.

Beyond the windows of nearby storefronts: the secondhand click click click of hammers drawn, slides racked.

"You think the barrier's down yet?" Marcel asks beside her, crossing his arms.

She watches.

There was always a certain futile romanticism in those hard-leather men of the plains who with pistols on hips strode out to meet their fates, to be buried beneath dry white tumbleweed hills amidst the horses in their bleached xylophone scatterings, but this new generation of iron-eyed John Waynes, these boys with steel skin, marshmallow nerves-

They're all show.

She can see the boy shaking from here.

He reaches the street in a blur.

God, how long the thunder rolls on from these little black mouths that poke out from behind waxwork dummies, toyshop fashions, confectioner's ribbons.

"Nope."

She pops the 'p'.

They watch the boy's little rag doll corpse convulse against the spell that holds them all in place.

"Maybe if you hadn't sent a damn _baby _to bring Sophie down-"

"He's the only one who can get through to the other side- the wolves think he's one of them." She flicks a curl over her shoulder. "He'll do it."

"You're putting a lot of faith in this kid, Caroline. Don't tell me he suckered you in with those pretty little dimples. Come on- the Caroline I knew back in the 20th century? She'd have gutted him just for trying."

She lets out a little huff. "He's _useful_. As soon as he ceases to be? I will."

She taps her fingers on the railing.

She adjusts the hem of her shirt, the sleeves of her jacket, and she does not for a moment swallow down anything hot, she does not stare out over these damp spring streets and wonder what the hell is _taking _him so long, she does not want him to just _come back _to her-

* * *

First the heart.

Slippery thing.

With fish elusiveness it skids about in your fingers, leaps from the fist, flops about on the floor, rolls to a long red halt.

And then of course, the neck: a bit of kindling in his hands, a matchstick rupture, a peppermint shattering.

Down sags this rearranged bodyguard, his head twisted round, his larynx poking through.

Beside his companion and his empty chest this bodyguard goes to seek his final rest, staring so endlessly, bemusedly, _plaintively _with his bright marble eyes.

"Jane-_an_-"

In a flash he takes the witch down, and like the first guard he divests her of her heart and he pulls his fingers away coated in this bright candy nectar, his fangs prickling his lip, his nostrils full of this alcoholic lure, but now from the other room there is a sudden commotion.

"Sophie -Sophie, what the hell- you can't break the connection, the wards will all go down, dammit-"

"I'm afraid she didn't have much of a choice, sweetheart," he says from the doorway.

"Klaus. Jesus _Christ_."

He smiles. "Let's not take the Lord's name in vain, shall we, love? After all, haven't you still got a chance at that pearly salvation within the clouds?"

"You can't tell me you expect to make it out of here now. There's a whole pack just outside that's going to take issue with the fact that you just murdered two of their own-"

"Oh, I don't intend to make it out. I'm rather aware of the consequences of my actions, sweetheart. I just need to buy a moment," he says calmly, and then he is upon her.

He breaks three of her ribs on his way inside, and when her scream brings four sets of steps at a dead sprint from the lobby of the hotel which they have selected as their headquarters, he gets her round the liver, and he squeezes until she can scream no more.

"Another step, and I tear it out of her," he snarls, unearthing his phone with his free hand. "If you think she can simply spell herself a new one, by all means, mates, have at it."

* * *

"Go. Now," he barks into her ear, and with a click he is gone.

She snaps her phone shut.

"The ward's down. _Go_," she snaps, and with a light little hop, she swings herself out over the railing and she drops with soundless cat grace to the ground far below.

* * *

He makes his way through six of them before a lucky shot grazes his shoulder and a skillful one pierces him through the lung.

He staggers, he loses his grip on a chest, he reels sideways into the wall, but you'll have to do better than that, mates, newly risen from the ashes he may be, his abilities not quite honed, his strength not yet unbeatable, but Mikael beat into Niklaus the boy a true survivor, and Klaus the beast is not yet so removed from this lesson that he would bend his neck so easily to the sword.

With one bullet still in him he throws himself down the stairs, the carpet singeing his palms, the treads opening his lip, and on the bottom level he finds his feet again with a brief sea leg staggering and he makes a dash for the front door, his lungs charred, his throat burned away-

He is side-checked by a mountainous shoulder, and now through the glass he crashes, rolling as he hits, his assailant crunching along behind him through this twinkling gravel-

* * *

Asshole, asshole, _super _asshole- God, don't any of this selfish twenty-first century _dicks_ know how to treat a lady?

She drops another to lie with his fresh lipstick throat still seeping, stepping over him as she wipes her mouth, her eyes scanning in little flicks that pick up another one over there and one just beside him, from the shadows they emerge, gaping mouths, gaping rifles, wild eyes, wilder screams, _please_-

She has seen it done so much better, boys.

The storming of the Bastille, the roiling of those disgruntled Russian peasants who dispersed to leave behind the Romanovs like so much flotsam forgotten by outgoing tides- this is _nothing_, she hasn't a single _scratch _on her, freaking come _at _her, for God's sake-

The candy shop whose barricade she broke so easily comes alive.

Lightning! Thunder! The eye is upon her! The wretched lid with it's Frankenstein embroidery flickers, oscillates, lifts! The beast stirs!

And so on and so forth, blah blah, yawn.

She cracks her neck.

Question, boys.

No, don't take potshots at her while she's talking- you see what happens, when you pull that sort of shit? Now, of course she didn't _want _to twist that kid's head around until it just popped right off -oopsie; she always forgets how _delicate _those things are- but rudeness is such an unfortunate side effect of this bustling century with phone perpetually to its ear, and God, is a little simple _courtesy _really so much to ask for?

Gun down, sweetie.

Safety on, dickbag.

Now.

She's looking for someone.

She's sure you've seen him around somewhere- about yay high, curls, dimples to shift a man's very sexuality and awaken the sleeping nun's erotic instinct?

* * *

By some grace of a god who must surely have turned the blind eye to him long ago, he reaches the street.

With a great foaming of sharp copper saliva he digs the bullet from his lung and folds forward to rest on his hands and knees for just a moment, breathing past the bile.

One, two, mate, and up you go.

He staggers to his feet.

"Turn around, asshole," someone snaps, and round his neck goes an arm, into his knee thrusts a heel-

Down he goes with his fangs in this arm, his nails hooked to the bone, and now one hot white explosion is followed by another, the shots muffled by his shirt, the muzzle flush to his spine.

* * *

"Turn around," she mimics, smiling perkily.

Bye, jerk off.

A scream, a twist, a cracking.

"Get up," she says coldly, and jerks Klaus to his feet. "Run with them in you, unless you managed to somehow slaughter that entire building full of pissed off witches and werewolves?"

"Caroline?" he asks hazily.

"No?" she replies, thrusting him behind her as another volley is fired from one of the lobby windows, holding onto him as he shudders and sags and goes down to a knee. "Then get _up_."

"Did you come for me?" he asks, and how much hope there is in this boy who has no reason for it.

She holds him up by the elbows, and in a blink she whisks him from street to back alley to side entrance, and she stands supporting his head on her shoulder as she feels around for the little sharp wooden splinters they have left inside him.

* * *

"Bathroom's to the very back. Marcel had the front desk bring up some clean clothes. I'm going to assume your wolf friends probably burned all of yours, seeing how you turned out to be such a little backstabber and all."

He peels off his shirt and leaves it in a pile on her floor, reaching for his boots next. "Well now, whose idea was that?"

"I didn't hear any protests on your end."

He drops a boot, works off his sock, sets to work on the other. "On the contrary, I believe you heard plenty- you merely chose to exploit my gentlemanly inability to refuse a lady." He looks up from beneath his eyebrows with a smile as he unlaces his second boot.

"Well isn't that the biggest load of crap I've heard since Henry VIII tried to persuade me that Anne Boleyn's execution had nothing to do with her failure to provide him with a viable male heir." She pauses to admire the movements of his arm muscles as he undoes the knots in his laces.

Lean little thing, but what he has is tight and toned, his abdominals in subtle little ridges, his forearms roped with delicate cable, none of him burdened with a spare inch, his waist trim, his hips narrow.

He kicks off his second boot, flicks off his remaining sock.

"I'm curious," she says, lounging back on the settee across from him and crossing her legs. "How far is this little strip tease going to go?"

He straightens with a smile, his dimples showing, his hair a little mussed. "As far as you want it to, love."

"I think we established back in London that you don't want to charm your way into my panties. Most of the guys who sleep with me don't make it out in one piece."

He cocks his head, loses the smile.

She does _not_ mourn the loss of those adorable little pockmarks, the precise lift of his brow, the coiling of his pouty Abercrombie lips.

"And why is that, Caroline?"

He's always been a little nosy, this one. How much of history has she seen; whose elbows has she rubbed; in which wars did she participate; what did she like in the past; for what does she hope in the future-

But you don't dig down into someone like her, kid.

Yes, she was once a girl.

Yes, she once gripped in her needy little hands friends, lovers, a _family_, but time -it chips away at everything, walls crumble before its might, civilizations topple beneath its touch- a sister, a mother, a brother -_everything_, Klaus- your cheeks never show a day, your back remains so stiffly straight, your hair does not mature from ribbon to wire, but do you understand that that's _it _-that's all you can keep- your firm cheeks, plump lips, smooth hands, a pleasant mirror, preserved sex appeal- think that's _enough_, Mikaelson?

She ticks her eyes away from him.

"Caroline."

"Get in the shower."

"Why did you come after me?" he asks, and she sees in his face how much he needs to not be dismissed, to hear that what happened was someone chose him, someone will _always _choose him; a place at someone's side and arms that will not turn him away, God, that's all he _wants_, this boy whose face gives away too much.

But to cross the line, to step over this careful barrier she has erected between them, to search around underneath all her layers upon layers of centuries-thick armament and to acknowledge that ok, _yes_, maybe she jumped that railing and she whisked away into the night because he makes her laugh, because she likes his smile- she can't _do _that, not when time with its reaper inevitability will come and snatch him away, when one day he will subside beneath either grave mold or memories.

She watches his jaw tighten, his eyes flicker away, the slow white-knuckled bunching of his fingers within the shirt he has bent low to retrieve from the carpet.

He opens his mouth.

She shuts him up for good.

"I know what you're thinking, about me," she says coldly, before he can slip free a single word. "About how you feel. But you don't. You can't. Not anymore. You think getting all warm in the bathing suit parts means there's a part of you that's still human? That I laugh and you get those little butterflies in your stomach and oh, fanfreaking_tastic_- little Nik is still somewhere locked away inside, maybe down deep, but he's there, and he loves a girl. And one day? They're going to ride off into the sunset on their rainbow-colored unicorns and forever- that's how long that boy is not going to be lonely anymore. But you know what? You're a monster now. Get used to it. We don't really _feel_- or so I've been told. We can't love, and we can't _be _loved, and you're just going to have to get over it. Nobody's loved me- really, _really _loved me in a thousand years, and that- _that_, Klaus Mikaelson, is what you have to look forward to. Not a fairy tale of a girl and a boy who didn't get enough. Not a happy ending. Nothing but time, and how you're going to spend it all."

She sits looking up at him, her throat very tight and her hands very still.

He is not quite done after all. "You've been told wrong, love," he says quietly, and in a blink he is gone.

* * *

He hears her feet on the carpet just outside the bathroom, and in a moment she has cracked open the door, let out the steam, slipped through into this wet jungle atmosphere with its fog in a cirrus gathering on the mirror.

He holds himself very still, the water thundering off his head, scalding his back, pooling beneath his toes.

She stands for an entire minute while the shampoo stings his eyes and the soap gathers between his toes and the drain gurgles its deep wet inhales.

There is a rustling.

The whispering of a shirt pulled off, the hissing of jeans skimmed down, underclothes discarded, hair let loose.

She twitches the curtain aside and lifts one long white leg over the edge of the tub to join him on its sticky blue mat, and he lets out a breath he does not even remember drawing.

Her slow revolution is a thing that lasts forever; for an eternity she turns, profile first, a sliver of throat, breast, stomach, her feet squeaking on the mat.

The shower paints streaks of wheat through her hair, flattens her curls down her back, makes its way in thin little tendrils over her nipples.

She blinks up at him. "Don't say anything, all right?" she whispers, and then her hands find his chest and a hesitant step and a forward lean and her breasts touch him next, her nipples hard.

He stirs between them, but she does not reach down for him.

She tilts her face and she shuts her eyes, and a simple brush, a tentative touch, and the things that are _awakened _inside of him-

What she with her thousand years does not understand, what she who has spent years as the affluent squander dollars can no longer see is that hope lingers forever on, a pestilence without cure, an epidemic sans treatment.

He sees it in her eyes and he hears it in her laugh and though she tells him not to speak she lets out a little breath that sounds like his name as he grips her by the hips and he pulls her up against him, and don't try and persuade him, love, that you are no longer capable, that this is merely some bloody little _tryst_, an instinctive animal mating.

He kisses her chin, her nose, her forehead, slips his arms round her waist, presses his hips flush to hers.

He backs her up against the wall and he watches her face as he slides his hand down between them and he slips in first one finger and then two, and now she arches further into him, drops her head, opens her mouth-

He lowers his cheek to her chest as he strokes her clit with his thumb and pumps his fingers slowly down to the knuckle and then back out again, her breaths rattling in her throat, his hoarse against her skin.

"Faster," she gasps, arching again, one hand fumbling up to find his shoulder, her nails drawing blood.

He drops instead to his knees as he works away at that same leisurely pace, catching her ankle with his free hand and hooking it over his shoulder.

He leans in to replace his fingers with his mouth, sucking her clit in excruciatingly slow intervals between his lips to explore it with his tongue.

"Oh, God," she hisses, and clenches her hand in his hair.

The rain has turned tepid against his back.

Her nails hurt his scalp; her foot twitches against his shoulder.

He slides his tongue inside, withdraws it slowly, laps it up to taste her clit, glides it back down along her lip.

"Oh my _God_."

He continues this unhurried exploration as her leg twitches again and her nails dig in harder, flicking his tongue in little figure eights, adding a finger to his ministrations, taking it away, thrusting with his tongue, sucking with his lips, and now suddenly her foot bears down hard and with a little kick it shoves him away.

He looks up with clouded eyes.

"Sit back," she demands.

He lowers himself down, stretching his legs out in front of him.

She takes his face roughly between her hands, eases herself down onto the tip of him, kisses him until his lower lip bleeds.

He lets out a shivery little breath as she takes him to the hilt with a little buck of her hips, her nails raking his shoulders, her teeth tasting his neck.

She begins to rock, just a little seesaw of motion, a fantastic friction, and in a moment she begins to spasm, convulsing around him, squeezing him as she comes-

He crushes her hip in his hand, kisses his way from breast to collarbone to jaw line, thrusts up as she slides down to meet him, and now as this first wave passes, she takes his face in her hands again, and she rests her forehead against his own as she rides him.

He opens his eyes to watch her face, all the little minute motions of lash and lip, the quivering of the lids, the helpless shifting of the mouth. "Caroline," he breathes, and she closes his mouth with her own.

* * *

She tweaks his hard little nipples between her fingers and she grinds until another wave collapses her with an expletive against his chest, until she hears him let out a sharp little exhale into her hair as his orgasm bursts warm and wet inside her, one arm snaking around her back to pull her closer against him.

He kisses her so reverently, as she sits here on top of him with the water going cold above them and the mat sticky beneath them.

It is not going to move her; she will not let him burrow _beneath _her.

He opens his eyes very slowly.

He smiles so freaking _sincerely_, this boy who like all others will one day leave her behind.


End file.
